


something black in the crypts beneath Winterfell

by emmaliza



Series: The Kings of Winter [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (or rather fluff subverted into angst), Accidental Incest, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arranged Marriage, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Bad Sex, Cousin Incest, Dom/sub Undertones, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Family Dynamics, Family Secrets, Fluff and Angst, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Guilt, Half-Sibling Incest, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Virginity, Magical Realism, Multi, Prostitution, Repression, Surreal, Violence, switching POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-20 15:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12436068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: “Bran. I think we're lost.”“We can't be lost. We're just outside Winterfell.”“Yes. But we're outside Winterfell.”Jon and Bran go for a walk in the woods.





	1. The Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> So, uni's over for the semester, meaning it's time to start work on the third instalment of this trilogy (I mean I could/probably should wait until I have all my assignments/exams over with, but shh). This one is based primarily on Ingmar Bergman's _Persona_ , although... how might not be that clear until later. But we'll get there.

“ _Please_ , Jon?”

Jon sighs heavily as he tries to walk across the empty courtyard, not getting very far before Bran darts in front of him and almost trips him up. “Bran, I have things to do.” That might be a lie. Father is always giving him tasks to help him feel worthwhile, and to keep him and Lady Stark out of each other's way, but he does know nothing at Winterfell will fall apart without him.

Bran raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He hesitates before answering. It's a good question. What was he meant to be doing? In the middle of the argument, he seems to have forgotten.

It's not that he doesn't want to go riding with his little brother. He likes spending time with Bran. It's just...

“Look, I'm busy,” he says weakly. “Can't you ask Father?”

“He's busy.”

“Robb?”

“Also busy.”

Jon sighs deeply. “Theon?”

At that, Bran just glares.

He groans. Jon is starting to realise he doesn't actually have a good excuse, but... “your mother will kill me if you're late for dinner,” he mutters.

A pause, and then Bran frowns, concerned. “She won't be that mad, will she?”

In truth, Jon doesn't really know. Lady Catelyn spends so much time valiantly trying to conceal her rage over the fact he even exists that it's hard to tell how mad she is at him at any given moment, or if anything he actually does can change that. She always lets his father handle it whenever he actually needs discipline – perhaps because she does not trust herself.

_I'd rather not take the risk,_ he thinks, but he's not sure how to explain that to his little brother. Bran continues. “Besides, she's busy too,” he explains. “If we're quick, she might not even notice we were gone.”

Bran has a point. Jon's probably being paranoid.

“And if you say no, I'm going to have to entertain myself. Meaning I'm going to go climbing again, and I'm probably going to fall and break my neck and die.”

Jon sighs. “Alright,” he says, and Bran immediately bursts into a bright, shining grin. Jon tries to glare at him, but it's hard not to smile. “I hope you realise how spoiled you are.”

“Yep!” Bran announces cheerily. “Come on, let's go get the horses!”

* * *

“That horse is too big for you,” Jon warns Bran as his brother rides ahead of him, not for the first time. He tried to talk Bran out of picking such a horse back at the stables, but for a boy of Bran's age, that just made him more stubborn and Jon soon gave up. Not that he'd be any different. He feels a lot older than Bran, but really, he's not _that_ much older.

Bran looks back over his shoulder and frowns at him. “I can handle it,” he insists.

Jon doesn't know how Bran would know that. He doesn't have the experience. Still, Jon knows there's no talking his baby brother out of it, so instead he just readies himself to keep an eye out and if worst comes to worst, carry him back to the castle. “Eyes front,” he reminds him.

“The horse has eyes,” Bran says, but he does turn back around, and Jon rides up behind him.

“The horse is a lot bigger than you, you don't know what he's going to do. You shouldn't trust him blindly,” he says, and Bran doesn't answer. Jon looks down at where he's grasping the reins. “Sorry. I know, I worry too much. It's just... you look so small.” He reaches over and places one of his hands next to Bran's grasping the reins with him. “Your hands are so tiny. At least compared to mine.”

Bran looks up at him, with an inscrutable look on his face. “They say it's bad luck to compare hands,” he says.

Jon blinks. “Who says that?”

Bran looks away, puzzled. He can't remember. _Probably his mother,_ thinks Jon.

Gently, Bran shakes him loose. “You'll confuse the horse,” he says softly, almost apologetic. Then he rides on ahead, again, leaving Jon behind – quite confused himself.

* * *

They come to a stop in a clearing, by a bit of water that's a bit more than a puddle, not quite a lake. They sit in comfortable silence by the edge of it, taking a moment to get their breath back, the only living creatures for miles around. Well, not quite. There are animals in these woods. Idly, Jon wonders where their horses have gotten to.

Bran is tying sticks together with bits of flax, apparently forming a makeshift slingshot. He grabs a pebble and tries to launch it, but the string breaks and the pebble doesn't hit anything – it just sort of disappears.

Jon tries to smother a laugh. Not very well, if the look Bran turns around to give him is any indication. “Shut up!”

“Sorry, Bran,” says Jon, still grinning. “We should have brought Arya. She knows how to make a proper slingshot.”

At that, Bran pulls a face and says nothing.

Jon winces as something splatters on his face. “Rain,” he grumbles, wiping it off his cheek as a sudden shower comes down around them. “Okay, I'm hiding under the trees.” He gets up and walks to where an oak provides some shelter, leaving Bran just sitting there. He looks up and sees something horrible, fleetingly, something he's only seen once before. Jon frowns. “Bran?”

A noise, loud and terrible, makes them both jump. _Thunder_ , Jon tells himself, but it doesn't sound like thunder – it sounds like the opposite of thunder, somehow.

Bran's eyes snap back toward Jon, and then the rain clears, as suddenly as it started, as he gets up and joins Jon sheltering beneath the foliage. “Sorry,” he mutters, although for what, Jon has no idea.

Jon sighs as they wait a moment, making sure the rain really has passed. He looks at the horizon through the trees, and squints into the setting sun. “We should head back,” he says. “It's getting dark.”

Bran's face contorts in worry, for some inexplicable reason. “But we don't have to, right?” he asks, and Jon is struck by how young he sounds – how much a child. “We can stay a little longer?”

“Your parents will be worried about you, Bran,” says Jon. He likes to think his father will be worried about him too. He doesn't know what Lady Stark would think. _She might be worried about what I've done with her son._

Bran looks away from, staring into the sun without blinking, and Jon is starting to worry himself now. “Bran, what's the matter?” he asks gently. “Do you not want to go back?”

The boy looks back at him, twisting his neck so fast Jon fears he might snap it. Still, it takes him a long moment to reply. “No. No, of course I do,” he says, but he doesn't exactly sound convinced. He breathes deeply and takes one of Jon's bigger hands in his tiny one. “Come on, let's go.”

* * *

That, however, proves easier said than done. Jon means to follow from where the oaks turn into the elms, and the elms turn into the willows, and the willows turn into the weirwoods – but the change never comes. They are surrounded by oak. They walk in circles, hand in hand so they don't lose each other, but they never find anything but oak.

As the sun sets and they fall into a half-night, Jon swallows deeply. “Bran,” he says, “I think we're lost.”

Silence. “We can't be lost,” Bran manages to answer eventually, with a lump in his throat. “We're just outside Winterfell.”

“Yes. But we're outside Winterfell.”

 


	2. The Spring King

Jon does his best not to panic. Bran is right; they just left Winterfell, it can't be _that_ far. If only the trees would clear a little, they'd probably be able to see it from here. And besides, eventually, Father is going to get worried and go looking for them. He wouldn't let them waste away out here.

He knows that, and yet he can't shake the dread that Father _won't_. That they are both on their own now.

Jon keeps his hand locked with Bran's as night falls around them, and he can hardly make out the shape of his baby brother in the dark. Bran is brave about it all, facing the night without a cry, but a boy of his age, he must be scared.

They end up doing what most lost people end up doing: walking in circles. Jon keeps hoping that something will change, he'll see something familiar to help guide them back home, but it's just trees, trees and more trees. He can hardly see anything anyway, and they end up almost walking into the trees quite a few times. Jon realises this is pointless, they're just going to exhaust themselves, but he can't stop – they have to keep moving. But he wishes he knew where their horses buggered off to now.

Mercifully, something does change eventually – the trees thin out and Jon's nostrils are filled with the scent of something rich and sweet. He looks down and sees he is walking upon a bed of roses. In the dark it's impossible to tell the type of them, the colour, or where the thorns are, but he's so relieved because they're _not trees_. They don't smell like real roses in truth, more like a bottle of rose perfume, but it doesn't matter.

Then in the distance, a voice sings:

“ _Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray...”_

“Sansa!” Jon cries, and lets go of Bran's hand to go running through the flowers to her song, not caring one whit if he cuts his ankles his ankles bloody. Bran swallows his fear. _He's running to Sansa._ In the dark, he has to stick his hands out in front of him, but he manages to stumble forward and follow.

She's sitting in the clearing, surrounded by the roses, playing and singing to herself. Jon's heart hurts looking at her. _She's so young._ She looks up, and smiles at him politely. “Hello, Jon.”

The thorns get thicker between them, and Jon hesitates to approach her, afraid he'll scratch himself. “What are you playing?” he asks, nodding at where she holds a doll in one hand, and a cloth dragon in the other.

Sansa grins at him. “The knight is going to slay the dragon,” she says, and Jon frowns.

Behind them, Bran swallows the lump in his throat. “How?”

Jon turns and looks at Bran, to see the young man standing tall, taller than him, eyes as dark as his hair.

Sansa frowns slightly. “I admit, I'm not sure yet.” But still, she pushes her dolly knight forward, a long needle stuck through his palm to act as a sword.

He remembers that doll. “Didn't Arya throw that in the fire?” It was a present from Lady Stark, a doll that would double as a pincushion, since Sansa was at that age where she would outgrow dolls soon but hadn't quite yet. Jon can't remember what they were fighting about that time, but he remembers Sansa being mad Arya didn't get punished like Sansa thought she deserved. Lady Stark was angry when she first heard, but after talking to Arya about it, she let it go, and looked a little sick for the rest of the day.

Sansa pulls a face. “Yes. But Mother made me a new one.” She makes her knight swing his sword again, and Bran grimaces as the dull red of his crown glows in the moonlight, not like the wiry black of the last one. He takes a step back, but he knows if he tries to move too far he'll trip and fall.

Jon sighs deeply. “I thought you hadn't played with dolls in years?”

She hesitates before she answers. “Perhaps I started again,” she says, and then she looks up, looking them both in the eye. Jon frowns, and Bran shudders.

“We ought to get back to the castle,” Jon says, unable to keep meeting that gaze. “Sansa? Do you know the way?”

“I should,” says Sansa, and she stares down at the knight and the dragon, frowning. She sighs and places them aside. “But I can't go. I'm still playing.”

She does not say it like she wants to. She says it like she has no choice. Jon's mouth hangs open, and he's not sure what to do now.

_Of course, the knight still needs to slay the dragon,_ thinks Bran, but then he notices the pile of other dolls behind her. She starts arranging them in a circle, like she's setting up a tea party, and the knight and dragon both take their seats, two small parts of a much bigger conversation. Bran feels a little sick.

Suddenly something _roars_ overhead; they all jump, and Bran stumbles and falls over a root behind him. He stares up into the sky, petrified, but he can't see anything above the treetops. It takes a long moment for him to break out his stupor, and he rushes back to his feet, hurriedly shaking the water out of his hair. He's not sure if he should be grateful they don't seem to notice.

“What was that?” asks Jon, and Sansa just shrugs. Bran says nothing.

The roar of the thing fades, and any rain on their cheeks dries quickly. “Go on, you two,” says Sansa, kneeling with her dolls and roses. “Go find the castle for me. I'll be alright here,” she says, like she doesn't believe a word of it.

Bran and Jon share a look. _We can't leave her,_ thinks one of them. _We have to leave her,_ thinks the other. Bran can't say which is which.

Jon swallows the lump in his throat before he looks back to his sister. “We'll come back for you,” he promises.

Sansa nods. “I'll be waiting.”

 


	3. The Hungry Wolf

Things are less comfortable between them after they leave Sansa, and Jon, unlike himself, starts talking a lot. Too much. Trying to fill silence, which is odd when he's usually alright with it. He talks entirely too much about politics, about which house in the North is doing what to whom, which he's sure is extremely boring for poor Bran but well, he will have to learn it all someday anyway, and at least it proves Jon is paying attention in his lessons. And Bran actually appears _somewhat_ interested, nodding along, asking questions at the right point – although he can't contribute very much to the conversation; at his age, he doesn't _know_ very much.

Although, when Jon glances sideways at his brother, he doesn't look like a small boy anymore. Not since Sansa. It's too dark to see much of his face, but he stands tall, a young man, taller than Jon.

Jon pulls at his collar, even though it's too loose on him anyway. But it's an old hand-me-down Robb gave him, so Jon wouldn't have to ask Father to buy him new clothes. Robb did things like that. “When did you get taller than me?” he asks.

Bran doesn't answer. He can't answer. He doesn't know.

Later, Jon starts blathering something about the Manderlys. “Father says the fishing trade isn't doing as well this year as some – although the Skyers above them have promised to send along their excess to Winterfell, a show of loyalty I guess–”

Bran gives him a dubious look. “The Skyers hate us,” he says.

Jon frowns, puzzled. “Since when?”

There's a long silence as they stare at one another, a look of dread dawning on his brother's face. Then Bran hurriedly averts his eyes. “Nevermind,” he mutters, and Jon's just about to ask what that's about when he realises: they've wandered into another clearing.

And not just any clearing; this one is formed by trees cut down in a neat circle, as if someone wanted this space empty for a reason. And in the centre of the circle is a stage.

Bran flinches in pain as suddenly the lights come on. He can't see any candles, but then again he can hardly see anything, he's all but blinded by the light. Slowly, a figure emerges from the sea of brightness, dressed in black velvet and gold chains, strutting about like a peacock.

“And here I stand, having mastered this realm, from the skies to the rivers to the ground into which they seep,” the man recites, hand on his heart, “and in the centre of them built a tribute to my glory, the world's most fearsome keep.”

Jon lets out a disbelieving laugh. “ _Theon_?!” He can't believe this. Lord Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, a mummer? Jon doesn't think Theon's even seen a play since he got in such trouble for dragging Robb to one about some King of the Rock when the little lord was only ten. Still, Jon thinks it suits him. He gets to dress up and pretend to be more important than he is.

Theon turns and glares at him. “Fuck you, Snow,” he says, seemingly not surprised by their presence, and then carries on with his monologue. “I rape and plunder across this land of mine, to make the Rivermen weep and fret. But the Riverwomen, the Riverwomen I make–” Theon pauses, frowns, and then looks back over himself. “Line?”

“Wet!” Bran calls out from the audience, and Jon turns to look at him, confused. _How did you know that?_

“Hey, are you called Harren the Black kid?” Theon snaps from up on stage. “No? Then shut up.”

Bran sighs and rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the dread thickening in his throat. Theon is just playing a part in a show, and nothing bad will happen. Good might come of this. _We'll get to laugh at him. There might be cakes backstage. That gum I like might come back in style._ He frowns at the sound of his own thoughts. _Gum?_

Theon coughs theatrically and then repeats himself. “I rape and plunder across this land of mine, to make the Rivermen weep and fret. But the Riverwomen, the Riverwomen I make wet. For they might claim that rather than their honour, they would rather I took their life, but I have brought the highest lady in the land to be my saltwife!”

For a few seconds, there's an awkward silence, and Theon frowns again. “Saltwife!” he calls, and grins nervously. “Saltwife?” Still silence, and Theon looks back over his shoulder. “Where is she?”

“Not here!” whispers a voice from offstage.

“What?!”

“She was busy!”

Theon huffs in irritation. “What am I meant to do then?”

“Improvise?”

A roll of the eyes, and for the next minute or so Theon just gestures vaguely to the empty air. Jon raises an eyebrow. He would have thought Theon would know how to mime obscene acts better than that. Bran balls a fist by his side, and tries not to think anything.

The scene is interrupted by the arrival of another man – or rather, clearly a girl in man's dress, complete with a goatee drawn on in charcoal that completely mismatches her silver-gold hair, that Jon is pretty certain Aegon the Conqueror did not have. Jon blinks. He knows he has never seen this girl before in his life, and yet, there is something so familiar about her. He can't look away. It's like he's staring into a fire, aching to reach out and touch, even if he knows he'll be burnt.

She rides a paper dragon, a few strings of red and yellow silk dangling from its mouth, meant to be the fire. “Halt, fiend!” she cries, proud voice booming. “Leave that poor woman be. For I have come to free this land from your tyranny.”

Theon cackles wickedly, clearly enjoying the part. “And what is this that bothers me, an oversized fly? This woman is like her lands: by the Old Gods, mine.”

Bran frowns. _Drowned God,_ he should have said, but no-one else seems to notice. “The woman is of the rivers, she belongs beside their blues, to wed and birth children, as a river births tributes.” Theon scoffs, and the conqueror continues. “Repent, my lord, and take up the dragon's banner. Or feel the heat of dragon flame, and die to fit your manner.”

“The fly makes threats, but fear it can never earn,” Theon smirks, hand upon the kraken on his chest, “for have you never heard, o king, that stone – it cannot burn.”

The girl sighs, forlorn, as if she wishes it did not come to this. “You give me no choice, my lord, for I offered you peace. Your line shall turn to ashes, and your voice shall turn to screams.”

Harren keeps laughing as Aegon pulls the string, releasing coloured silk. And then–

Fire.

Jon jumps back as flame tears through the wooden stage, the heat searing through the air. The girl is gone, but Theon screams in agony as the fire consumes him. “Theon!” Jon cries and darts forward, for he may not like Theon but the man is their father's ward, is Robb's friend, they have to save him–

But a hand grabs his arm and stops him.

Jon turns to see a young man taller than him, holding him back. “Bran,” he says, tugging away. “Bran, let go!” But Bran's grip, icy and implacable, stays firm. “Bran, we have to help him!”

Bran never answers him, he just keeps staring over Jon's shoulder, into the flames.

 


	4. The Bitter

Eventually the flames settle down into nothing but ash, leaving their clearing cold and dead. Jon gawps at the sight in front of him. A shadow passes overhead, like something fleeing, but it's probably just smoke. “Bran,” says Jon, horror in his voice, “what have we done?”

_Nothing,_ thinks Bran. They didn't do anything. And if they did nothing, it can't be their fault, right?

Jon finally manages to yank himself free of his brother's grip. “We need to go back to the castle,” he says. “We need to tell someone. Father. We have to tell Father. Bran – we have to go.”

He tries to walk away, but Bran doesn't follow. He can't follow. He keeps staring at the sea of soot, as if he's looking for something. Some sort of comfort, or vengeance.

“Bran, what are you staring at?” Jon asks. Bran doesn't answer. “What do you think is about to happen?!” he looks back and forth between his brother and what was the stage, and he knows he's getting hysterical. “Why did you stop me helping?” Bran still doesn't answer, and Jon is starting to get angry now. “What, did you think it'd be a funny lesson for Theon, that we'd put the git in his place, he'd come back after and we could have a good laugh at him? He's _dead_ Bran. No-one gets up after death. There's no applause. There's just silence and – second-hand clothes!”

Bran strikes him. Jon goes reeling, both from shock and from the surprising strength of the blow. He cradles his cheek as he looks up to see Bran's face screwing up like he's trying not to cry. Jon's not sure he's ever been slapped like that before.

“Bran,” Jon asks, bewildered, “what...?”

It's too much, he can't even bear to look at Jon anymore. He turns and runs back into the forest, disappearing among the trees, ignoring how his brother calls after him. As he runs it starts to rain again, the water plastering his hair to his face and making it get in his eyes. He tries to shake it away, but he can't completely.

Bran keeps running until he has to stop to breathe, and it's only then he realises how much the trees have changed. He stares at the white trunks and red sap. He turns and looks around and sees them all spread out, each with a different face. He's in the godswood at Winterfell, smoked and burned, but still there, still alive. Bran feels sick to his stomach, but this is his home, this where he belongs. _But they don't want me here,_ he thinks.

The rain still pours and the ash is soaking into Bran's clothing, forming a grey puddle around his feet. He needs to get clean. He runs over to one of the pools and scoops up a handful of water, splashing it on his face, relishing in the warmth.

His reflection looks so old, his hair dark, like Father's, and his eyes too they're – they're like Jon's. A stranger's eyes. But the weirwoods are coming closer, and their sap soon turns his hair red. It's growing longer too, longer than even he used to wear it, down to his waist. His eyes shine and in the brightness, turn blue. His body is shrinking, but not enough, not back to a small boy, just smaller than he is now. His body _twists_ , it swells and narrows and curves, until no-one would think him a boy at all.

Then Bran watches himself rot; his hair drain to white from red, the red that reaches his eyes, scarlet pupils weeping bloody tears. He watches the dead pallid skin float away from his bones, and then he watches himself put a hand over his throat, opening his mouth as if to speak. Then, terrified, Bran grabs a rock and throws it into the pool.

The image breaks and Bran is himself again, hair red and dark, eyes brown and blue, a boy and a young man. Tears spring to his eyes. _No,_ he thinks. _I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I got scared, I got angry. Please come back._

“Bran?” There's a hand on his shoulder and Bran jumps a metre, whatever that is. He turns and sees Jon looming above him. “You ran.”

Bran scrambles away, eyeing Jon warily. Jon frowns, looking back and forth between his little brother and the pool, but he doesn't understand. “Why aren't you speaking?” he asks, and Bran doesn't speak.“Why are you so angry at me?” he asks. _I'm not angry at you_. “...You're angry at something.”

He can't do this. He turns his head and sees a weirwood with a laughing face; yes, smiling, always smiling. He gets to his feet and runs over to it, taking ahold of the branches. He kicks that stupid laughing tree right in it's stupid laughing face for good measure, and then he climbs, as high as he can go.

He climbs until he can feel the wind tearing through his skin, threatening to knock him down to the ground. He sighs and hops off his branch, walking down the corridor of this cold, stony castle. The safest place in Westeros, the Eyrie. Impregnable.

He walks until he reaches the Great Hall, where the Lord's chair sits empty. On the floor in front of it, however, is a long boy placing with toys. He looks up, surprised to have a visitor. “Hello!” he says cheerily, and goes right back to smashing a tin giant against the floor. “Did Mother say you could be here?”

_No,_ thinks Bran, pacing around this boy. The boy huffs. “You should be careful, she doesn't like people being around me when she's not there. She says she has to protect me.” _She can't,_ thinks Bran. “Mother makes the bad men fly.”

Bran can't help himself, he bursts out laughing. _Does she?_ he wants to ask. The Eyrie is the safest castle in Westeros, impregnable, no-one can get in – unless they're invited.

“Are you laughing at my mother?!” the boy asks, appalled, and Bran just keeps doing it. “I could have you thrown through the moon door for that!”

Bran should at least try and take the threat seriously, but he can't keep the humour from spurting out of his throat. _I've been thrown from high places by scarier people than you._ “Stop that! I'm the Lord of the Vale, this is my seat and my Mother is coming–”

Bran seizes the boy by the hair and he screams as the moon door slides open beneath them, air rushing through like a roaring dragon. They're so high up the clouds must be raining beneath them. The boy's hair is too long; his mother hasn't cut it in months, years. “You're hurting me!” the little lord sobs, trying to pull away, but Bran's nails dig in like claws. “You're scaring me! Please!” The boy begs and pleads without pride. Bran stares down into the void beneath them. It's such a long way to fall. _Falling, still falling..._

“My mother will come back!”

_She won't!_ Bran wants to scream. _She's never coming back! She's dead!_

He throws the boy aside and the moon door slides closed, the air painfully still around them. His cousin lies on the ground and shakes and sobs, while Bran hurries to his feet, trying to look the young man and not the trembling child. _Am I mad?_ he wonders. _What good am I if I'm mad?_

Still lying on his back, Sweetrobin stares up at him, terrified. Bran can feel water running down his neck. “Why do you hate me so much?”

Bran's face contorts in a horrible sneer.

“You're a _child_ ,” he spits.

 


	5. The Daughterless

“Bran!” Jon calls as he trudges through the woods, desperately trying to find where his brother has gotten to, but it's no use, it's just trees and ash. Jon doesn't understand what is going on, why Bran is acting like this, and he's very frightened. _We just need to get back to the castle,_ he tells himself, ignoring the fact he has no idea how to do that either.

When he walks far enough the trees start to clear, giving way to buildings. They haven't been spared the fire though: they sit there smoked and empty, like a city sacked. No, not a city. Winter Town was never a grand city like Oldtown or King's Landing, or even White Harbour, it was a shabby town in the shadow of their great keep. But it was _their_ town.

Only one building seems to be open, a dull red glow emanating from within. The brothel, where Theon must have spent half his life, where Jon could only bring himself to go once, and couldn't even bring himself to do anything while he was there. Jon sighs. He really hopes Bran hasn't wandered into a brothel, because then even leaving aside Lady Catelyn, Father, Robb, _everyone_ is going to kill him. Nonetheless, he steps inside.

It's dark, which you would expect, and quiet, which you wouldn't really. Jon finds himself in a corridor, six doors along the walls.

“Good evening, m'lord.”

Jon jumps a mile, and turns around to see a man with ashy blonde hair standing behind him. “I'm not a lord,” he says roughly, and the man just shrugs, like it makes little difference.

“Well. What can I help you with then, m'lord?”

“I–” _I'm looking for my brother,_ he means to say, but he gets distracted when he looks at this man more closely. “I know you.” He can't recall the name, but he remembers when he planned to go to this place, when Theon managed to convince him he should fuck a girl once before running off to the wall with his tail between his legs, he overheard some of the guards talking. There were two brothels in Winter Town, and this man said this one, closer to the castle, was far superior to the one further away. Later Jon learned that wasn't really true, it's just that the man's bastard daughter happened to work at the other one. The memory makes Jon flinch, and he wonders if he should apologise to this man for slighting his daughter's honour, absurd as that is. “You were one of my father's guards.”

The man smiles and nods sadly. “I was.” And then he hisses in pain, clutching his side, as red soaks through his tunic.

“Ser!” Jon darts forward and tries to help the man, but he's warded off with a hand. “You're bleeding.”

“It's nothing,” says the man, and he quickly rights himself, looking as cheerful as ever even as his clothing turns ever more red. “Don't worry about me. It's part of the job.”

Then Jon is surprised by one of the doors swinging open, a group of six men walking out, still adjusting their breeches, laughing merrily among themselves. Jon winces. He feels sorry for whatever poor whore had to service that lot.

Another door swings open, and inside a young woman with long dark hair lays in bed, her body bloated with child-bearing, clutching a bag of bones. “I hate him,” she sobs through her scowl, “I hate him!”

_Who?_ Jon wonders, but he finds he doesn't want to know. _Is that my mother?_ He doesn't think it's terribly likely, but he can't be sure it isn't.

The door closes again and Jon sighs in relief. He turns back to the guard, whose tunic is now entirely red. “What am I meant to–?”

“Your girl is in the second room, m'lord,” the man tells him, then frowns. “Third? No, second. Just there.” He points, and Jon feels dread rising in his chest. _I shouldn't, I told myself, after Ros, after Ygritte, I can't–_ “They told us you like redheads.”

Jon swallows the lump in his throat, and turns to find the second room, opening the door hesitantly. When he sees the girl waiting there for him, he thinks _you're not a redhead._

She is very pretty though; tall, young, but with a womanly figure, large breasts and piercing blue eyes. She wears a ragged blue-grey robe wrapped around her, which appears to be her only clothing. She smiles when he enters the room, but it doesn't reach her eyes, which remain unreadable. “My lord.”

Jon winces. _Please stop calling me that,_ he thinks. “My lady,” he answers dumbly.

“I'm no lady,” she says, sadly, as she struts over toward him with a grace any lady would envy. “My name is Alayne Stone.”

_A bastard,_ Jon thinks, but he decides not to mention it, especially when she comes close enough to start unlacing his jerkin. A fire blossoms in the hearth behind her. “I work for a man called Petyr Baelish,” she says as she pulls it open to reveal his skin, which Jon can't bring himself to look down at. Her hands reach down and unlace his breeches also, and Jon gasps as her delicate hands brush against his prick.

“And you're–” but there's no need to finish the sentence; he knows what women who work for Petyr Baelish are. Alayne giggles girlishly.

“Why of course not, my lord. I am a maid, pure and not yet flowered. My father wouldn't let that happen to me.”

She steps back and tears open her robe, baring her breasts shamelessly. Jon blushes and averts his eyes. No woman has teats like that before she's flowered.

But still, he can't keep his eyes off her for long, peeking under his lashes to examine her porcelain skin, fulsome bosom pricked with tiny pink nipples, dark brown curls bouncing around them. Her hair isn't red, but her eyes and cheekbones... he is tempted, sorely tempted. For she is beautiful, and there is something so familiar about her, but Jon can't for the life of him place it. He feels like he did with Ygritte, when he tried so hard to keep her away, but knew that in the end, he could not. This Alayne couldn't be less like Ygritte if she tried, but still. It's like she's been stripped naked, stripped of anything that would keep her from him, and now she is here and he can make her his if he wills it.

_I could do anything to her._ Jon would never think himself the sort of man to treat a woman so, not like Theon, but he _could;_ he could throw her onto the bed and pin her down and fuck her so hard and so rough she'd scream as much in pain as pleasure. He could have her on her hands and knees as he takes her from behind like a bitch, pulling her hair to force her into whatever position he wants. He could slap her and call her a whore. He could make her call herself a whore, a bitch, a cunt, whatever he wants so long as he lets her come. He could be her lord, her king, her _master_.

The thought has Jon hard and aching in his breeches, and that makes him feel sick. _No. I wouldn't do that._ Perhaps he should have her tie him up, so he can be sure he won't lose control. But even that doesn't make his fears abate. What if he hurt her some other way? If he insulted her, humiliated her, made her cry? What if he told her she just wasn't a very good whore?

Perhaps she wouldn't be. He can't make himself believe she's been doing this long, and he doesn't want to damage her any further. And she must have been damaged, for she seems like the sort of girl who was never meant to find herself doing this. Never, and always.

But she is still smiling at him, though it never reaches her eyes, and he can't help himself, he grabs her hips and pulls her close.

She gasps as his nails dig into her white skin, deep enough to bruise. Redheads bruise so easily. And when he looks in her blue eyes again, finally he can read them – fear. He sees fear.

Jon's stomach churns, and he looks over her shoulder to try and avoid her gaze, but he sees the same thing. Those blue eyes, always watching, always judging...

He pushes her away. “I can't,” he says, and Bran lets out a deep sigh of relief, finally stepping away from the fire. _Of course he couldn't. She's our sister. He must know that._

Jon looks back and forth between the two of them, too much alike, panic thrumming through his veins. “I have to go,” he blurts out, and then he turns on his heel and runs.

Bran frowns. Sansa sighs sadly. “I'll be waiting.”

 


	6. The King Who Knelt

“What are you running from?”

Jon finds himself in the forest again, racing through the trees, panting. He doesn't know why he needs so badly to escape, he just does. Still, when he hears a voice he turns, and he sees a young woman sitting by the banks of a river. She has dark skin, hair and eyes, and wears the loose silks of Dorne, despite how out of place they are near Winterfell. She is probably a few years older than him, but still there is something forever childlike about her.

He's not sure how to answer the question. “...Family trouble,” he says, and she nods understandingly.

“Would you like to pet my cat?” she asks, and Jon blinks as with a loud meow, he grows aware of a scruffy one-eared black kitten by her side. “That always makes me feel better.”

Well, it couldn't hurt to try. He kneels by her side and leans over, scratching the cat behind its one ear. It purrs and nuzzles against his hand.

The black-haired girl laughs. “See, he likes you!” she proclaims. “He doesn't usually like strangers. There's this girl who's always chasing him, and he's always running away.”

Jon nods along. He keeps petting the kitten, but he leans over a little too far to do so. He almost falls into the river, and then glances nervously at it.

“You don't have to be afraid,” says the girl as she dangles her bare feet in the water. “It's only a river. It can't hurt you.”

Maybe. But Jon doesn't want to take the chance. The girl sighs. “They say all rivers lead to the sea.”

_Do they?_ Jon thinks, but maybe he doesn't want to know. “What's his name?” he asks, pointing to the kitten and changing the subject.

The girl grins. “Balerion. The Black Dread.” Jon blinks, and suddenly a huge dark shadow passes overhead again, like the true Balerion lives and flies above them, and the rain starts to pour again. Jon flinches and tries to shake the water from his hair, but she pays it no heed, even as it turns her think yellow silks translucent and her huge dark nipples poke through the fabric.

Jon blushes and averts his eyes. “I don't mind if you look at my teats you know,” she tells him, and Jon, hesitant, looks at her from under his lashes, skeptical. She grins. “It's only natural. Come now, Jon Snow, you worry too much. Here. Pet my pussy.”

Sighing, mortifyingly embarrassed, he reaches out and strokes along the kitten's head. It purrs again, but then turns and runs off, leaving him alone with the girl. _Bloody cats._ She smiles at him, with wide, open, welcoming eyes. He lets her take his hand, guiding it up over her breast. Jon's cock stiffens in his breeches as he rubs her nipple with the palm of his hand, while she sighs and leans into his touch. He squeezes her breast, and she yelps – in pleasure. She wants him. With his other hand, Jon starts rubbing between his legs, trying to relieve the ache.

“You're beautiful,” he murmurs as he leans in to kiss her neck, leaving faint red marks on her dark skin. “I'm sorry.”

She makes a puzzled noise. “For what?” And in truth, Jon isn't sure. So he opts against speaking and instead moves his hand down between her thighs, with part so easily for him, stroking her folds and finding her slick and wet.

When he pulls his hand back, it comes away red. Jon stares, horrified, memories bubbling under the surface of his mind. “You're bleeding.”

The girl just shrugs. “That happens to every girl, doesn't it? Every girl that lives long enough.” She pauses, and Jon swallows hard. “Does it bother you?”

Jon stares at the blood on his palm. He can still smell smoke in the air. But she wants him, and that might be more important. “No. No it doesn't,” he says, wiping his hand on his jerkin, and she grins as he reaches for her again, suckling at her teats and pushing a finger inside her. She moans and rocks towards him, and Jon thinks _this is where I belong._

“Come now, sister,” and Jon turns to see a young man walk into view, maybe a year older than Jon, who couldn't look less like this girl's brother if he tried; he has fair skin, silver-gold hair and haunting violet eyes. “You won't take him all for yourself, will you?”

She sighs. “Relax. I was just welcoming him in. _You_ would have just scared him.”

The boy grins as he sits down beside them. “Fair enough,” he says, and then he grabs Jon by his hair and pulls him into a kiss, rough and demanding. Jon moans and easily parts his lips, letting this boy claim his mouth with his tongue. The black girl sighs and wraps her arms around his waist, as hot as the sun, idly stroking his length from behind while Jon groans and fumbles desperately for the silver boy's cock, finding it hard and straight as a spear. Around them, the rain still pours.

Then the two of them pull away and stand, and Jon whines in disappointment, left panting, hard, his breeches open and making his lust plain for all the world to see. He fears the river is spitting up at him, but he can't bring himself to look. The boy and girl share a look, and then they part. Between them walks another girl.

She's maybe a year younger than him, with the same eyes, skin and hair as the silver boy. She wears nothing but a black cloak, fastened with a ruby clasp. She is beautiful. She is _familiar_.

When she settles into his lap, Jon gets a good look at her, and then he remembers. “You were in the play,” he says.

She smiles at him. “I was.” Her hair now hangs loose across her teats, but she is unmistakable. “My name is Daenerys.”

_Daenerys._ He's sure there was some Targaryen with that name, but he can't quite remember which one. She draws him in like a moth to the fire, and he wants her so, so badly, but, “I ought to be looking for my bro–”

But then she kisses him, and steals the thought away. He groans as she settles herself above his cock, and then pushes herself down, taking him all the way inside. She is so _hot_ inside, and so wet too. She rides him hard and fast like a stallion, and Jon pants as he thrusts up toward her, biting her skin, forcing himself in deeper. Beside them, the river swirls and rages with the fury of any sea, but Jon ignores it.

She gasps in surprise when he rolls them over, pushing her onto her back in the wet mud, but he knows she won't mind. Rain hammers against his back, cold as she is warm, spurring him on as he fucks her harder and deeper, moaning against her mouth: “Daenerys – Dany – _Your Grace_ –” and then for a fateful split-second, he looks up. “–Bran.”

Jon stops dead immediately, and Bran swallows hard, unable to keep his eyes off the Targaryen woman beneath Jon. His _aunt_. Tears spring to Bran's eyes, but he forces them back. _I was wrong. He doesn't want us, he wants them. He's just like them. He's just like_ him _. He's not one of us, he was never one of us. If he was one of us he would have wanted Sansa after all._

Jon scrambles to his feet, hurriedly relacing himself, ignoring the Targaryens who blow away like smoke on the wind, but it's too late. Bran turns his back and leaves.

 


	7. The Young Wolf

“Bran!” He's disappeared into the trees again. Jon realises this is getting silly; they keep desperately searching for each other, and then running as soon as they find each other. They need to just stay still, but it's like they can't. Jon is embarrassed about what happened by the riverbank, with those girls and that boys, but he doesn't understand how Bran reacted. It's none of his business. He doesn't even know those people.

It's still pouring with rain, and Jon's feet are soaked with mud; all around him is a sound like a creature crying, screaming, laughing, dying. It's probably just the wind. A storm's coming. Jon wants to go and get warm, get dry in the castle, but it's not like he knows where it is.

Luckily, there are only so many places Bran can hide. Jon thinks to look up, and spots his brother perched on a branch like a bird. “Bran!” Frankly, Jon doesn't know how Bran can still climb so well when he's grown so tall, but that's hardly the point. “Get down from there!”

Bran looks down at him, and Jon shivers at the look in his eye. Bright blue, and cold as ice. Alright, maybe Bran is angry about what he saw, maybe he thinks Father would be disappointed – Father will be disappointed – but he looks like he wants nothing to do with Jon. “We have to get back to the castle,” Jon says, and feels uncomfortably like he's pleading.

The boy only stares for another moment, and then in a split second, he jumps.

“Bran!” Jon falls to his knees as falls in a messy, broken heap among the roots. Desperately, Jon shakes his shoulder, but he gets no response. _He's dead,_ thinks Jon, and he can hear the wailing and weeping from across Winterfell – but that might be the creature he tells himself is the wind. _I should have kept him in the castle,_ Jon thinks, hysterical. _I should have been watching. I shouldn't have just left._

But then Bran surfaces, pulling his face up from the earth, and he keeps staring at Jon blankly. “Bran!” Jon shoves his shoulder roughly, too roughly. “You scared the life out of me!”

After a moment's painful silence, Jon wonders if he should apologise for the shove. But Bran hardly seems to have _noticed_. Jon sighs and gets to his feet. “Come on. We have to get back to the castle.”

But Bran doesn't stand. He gets up to his knees and no further, leaning against the trees. He's soaked through, his hair as long as a wildling's, he's even started to grow some stubble. His face is covered in mud, and there's even a snail who leaves an ugly white line across his cheek – but he doesn't notice that either. He wraps his arms around himself, and despite how tall he's gotten, that still makes him look the child.

“Bran, come on,” Jon says, beckoning him with his hand, like a dog, but Bran doesn't move. Frustrated, Jon takes a step closer. “Your mother will be worried. Look, I know you're upset with me, but–”

In truth, Jon doesn't know Bran is upset with him. He doesn't know Bran feels anything at all. It's like there are two Brans: the sweet, cheerful little boy he remembers, and this strange cold creature who doesn't talk. _But which is the real you, Bran?_

He sighs, and Bran just keeps staring at him, almost like he's waiting for Jon to _do_ something. Jon swallows the lump in his throat, and he can't help but wonder what people might think if they saw this, his little brother, on his knees before him in the forest. “Bran, _get up_.”

“Why?” Bran finally breaks his silence. “Isn't this what one does before kings, Your Grace? Kneel?”

Jon balls a fist by his side. “Don't.”

“Isn't that the correct title?”

“I said, don't.” _I didn't ask for this,_ Jon wants to say. _I never asked to be a king. I never wanted to steal your castle from you. All I ever wanted was for all of you to be happy and safe, don't you know that?_

A bitter, selfish part of him thinks Bran should be grateful. He should be relieved that he no longer has all of Winterfell to look after, that half the country is out of his hands, for surely it's too much for such a young boy to do? It'd be a miracle if he didn't just let the place burn.

But Bran does not look such a young boy anymore.

Bran says nothing, and Jon sighs deeply. He's afraid of what his little brother might do. He could grab, or beg like he's asking for extra pudding – but instead he waits, letting his arms drop by his sides, open and exposed. What is he waiting for?

“Bran, please stop kneeling.” It's Jon who begs. _What would his mother think?_

A sigh. Bran closes his eyes, and buries his head in his hands a moment. But then he _finally_ stands up, and as soon as he does, he walks around the tree with purpose. Jon blinks, puzzled, and follows.

As they make their way through the forest they turn into a corridor, and Jon looks around at the dark grey stone, feels the heat emanating from beneath it. _Winterfell._ Was the castle this close the whole time? But Bran doesn't stop, so Jon knows it's not over yet. He walks until he reaches his chambers, which is fair enough. He swings the door open, and Jon follows him inside.

_It smells like death in here,_ Jon thinks, and it's warm but getting colder – like the last days of summer. This is a place of bad memories for him. He doesn't want to think about what he saw here, what he felt here, what he heard here. But Bran must have come here for a reason, and Jon will never understand what's going on if he isn't brave enough to stay. He sighs, and looks at the bed.

It's not Bran in the bed this time, although you could make the mistake; he has the red locks Bran sometimes has. But he's taller, stockier, his hair shorter and he has the beginnings of a beard. Robb. Of course it's Robb.

Bran takes a seat and looks at him, dead-eyed, red-eyed. _He'll be alright, he'll wake up just like I did,_ he tells himself, but he won't. Robb is gone. He's been gone a long time.

“Bran...” Jon whispers, but Bran doesn't want to listen to him. The time for Jon to talk was a long time ago, and he didn't. How could he? He wasn't there. Bran should throw back the furs, let Jon see what Robb's body looks like beneath, but he's not that brave.

Jon swallows deeply. There is no point to being here, but Bran is not leaving, and Jon can't either – he can't look away. _Robb..._  His hair is wet, the snowflakes all melted. He looks almost peaceful. Almost, but not quite. Robb never was a good liar. _Or maybe he was so good, I never knew he was lying._

Robb has the furs up to his neck, the young wolf in everything but his face, and Jon thinks he should pull the covers back. He should know what happened to his brother after he left; the bruises, the scars, the crossbow bolts. He should, but he can't. He's not that brave.

Jon shakes his head. “I can't,” he gasps, his voice breaking, and he turns around. Here they go again.

As Jon steps through the door, Bran calls out to him. “Jon?”

Jon stops. He remembers this.

“It should have been you.”

Jon leaves.

 


	8. Ice Eyes

As Jon runs through the corridors, looking for some sort of respite, he ducks into a room. He frowns as he looks around; this room is utterly unfamiliar to him. It's hot in here, but not hot the same way it is in Winterfell; the heat doesn't come in from the walls, but floats through the windows, like he's somewhere genuinely warm, and not just conveniently located above some springs. There's a fine wide bed on one side of the room, and a looking glass at the other. In front of the mirror is a desk with a box of jewellery, ribbons and pins. There is a wide wardrobe with silk dresses inside. It's clearly a woman's chambers, but the room is too full of girl's things to be Arya's, and too neat and austere to be Sansa's. Jon doesn't know where he is.

But he hears noise, a raucous crowd that could drown out even whatever it is that keeps following them. Panicking, Jon jumps into the wardrobe, afraid of this girl's reaction if she found some stranger snooping in her rooms.

He peaks out of the wardrobe as the door swings open, a crowd bustling through, pushing a young man and woman in and onto the bed. _Oh. A bedding party. Of course._ Jon feels a swirl of dread as the bodies funnel in; he has no wish to be witness to this, spying on some couple's first time like an ugly voyeur. Of course, the point of the bedding is the spying, but Jon is not invited.

As he starts to get a clear look at the naked pair though, he can't look away. _Is that me?_ He thinks as he sees a young man awkwardly settling above his new wife, hair dark and down to his shoulders, none too tall, but strong looking. Jon doesn't know what it is that's so similar about them, but it's there. Beneath the man, he can only make out a flash of red hair, as the woman gasps when her back hits the sheets. The dread in Jon's stomach curdles, and he thinks of the girl in the brothel.

“Give her one for us, Ned!” announces some drunken partygoer, clapping the man on the shoulder, as the crowd starts to recede.

“Do your brother proud!”

Then Jon realises. The man looks so much like him, of course he does, everyone always said so – he would have done even more when he was younger, it's just Jon never really could imagine his father being young. That means the woman, she must be–

He is somewhere warm. Riverrun.

The crowd leaves and the door slams shut, leaving only the couple naked, alone and uncomfortable. Jon knows he shouldn't, but he leans forward and tilts his head to get a better look, seeing them in profile. Father is frowning in concern, as he so often was. His cock hovers incongruously hard above his wife's navel. Lady Catelyn looks nervous enough to shatter, her arms dead straight and trembling by her sides, like it's taking every ounce of will in her not to try and cover herself.

“My lady,” Father says slowly, awkwardly. “Are you – alright? I know they said – some things.”

“It's a bedding. I would be surprised if they didn't,” Lady Catelyn answers, her voice higher than Jon remembers. Well he supposes she is younger. “I'm alright, my lord.”

Father only frowns deeper. “They did not take any liberties?”

She shakes her head. “No.” Jon can see a red mark just below her breast, but he hopes she simply hit herself, or she's just embarrassed and flushing all over. “You don't need to worry so. Nothing happened I wasn't expecting. We girls all suffer the same.”

Father sighs deeply. “I'm sorry, I wouldn't have let them have the ceremony, it's just–”

“It's important everyone knows we've sealed the alliance. I understand.” She gives him her best reassuring smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

There's a moment's silence between them. Father coughs awkwardly. “So,” he says, “should we...?”

Catelyn nods. “We should.” Her hand twitches as if she's about to reach for him, and then she stops. Her face twitches slightly, and then she turns her head, hiding her face and looking straight at Jon. His heart thumps in his chest. _Please don't cry._ He doesn't know what to do with the thought of her crying.

“My lady?” Father asks. “Are you–?”

“I'm sorry,” she says, her voice almost choked out of her, “this is just – well. It's not how I imagined it.”

Father doesn't speak a moment, but Jon watches the look that crosses his face, understanding and just a little bit of hurt. “I know,” he says. “Brandon–”

“Brandon is dead.” Lady Catelyn spits the words out like venom, as if they hurt too much to have in her mouth for more than a second. “I – we have to – there's no _use_ –”

Words are failing her, and her chest heaves as she breathes in, trembling all over. She is trying so hard not to cry. Jon wonders how long ago Brandon died for her. Weeks? Months? And how long has she known Father? Is this the first time they've met?

Father looks on the edge of crying too, upset and confused. “My lady,” he says, “if you can't–”

“No.” Finally she turns to face him again, a mask descending on her. “My father has made this alliance, and trusted me to seal it. I will not disappoint him. I will do my duty. Come.”

Suddenly she grabs Father's cock, stroking him awkwardly, messily, betraying how little she knows what she's doing. Still, Father groans in surprise, but she manages to stroke him to full hardness. He is but a young man, and she's a beautiful girl. Once he's ready Catelyn guides him between her legs, tilting her hips off the bed to make it easier.

Jon shouldn't look. It's a relief he feels no hint of arousal, but this is still his father fucking, he cannot be watching. And Lady Catelyn, Jon can barely imagine what she'd think if she knew he'd seen her lose her maidenhead. He closes his eyes.

“Don't look away. Father will know if you do.”

Jon's eyes pop back open, and he turns to see someone hovering above his shoulder. _Bran?_ he wants to ask, but he's afraid to speak aloud lest they be heard. Jon hopes like all hells that Father doesn't actually know they're there. Bran's eyes flicker in the dim light that comes through the crack in the door, dark and completely unreadable.

So Jon doesn't look away. He keeps watching as Lord Stark finally claims his lady, and Catelyn gasps as he pushes inside her. She never protests, she clings to his shoulders and pulls him closer, letting him start to fuck her properly.

Tears well in her eyes – tears of pain, tears of grief, tears of knowing she's been bought and sold like cattle – and so she hooks her chin over his shoulder, hiding her face. Jon has only ever seen her weep once. He remembers he used to admire her, in a way, despite everything. He admired her strength. He admired that she would never show weakness to anyone she thought might be an enemy, and that was a skill he much envied.

But he had never meant to be her enemy.

He watches her maidenblood spilling onto her girlhood sheets, and he feels sick. “Isn't this what you wanted?” Bran whispers in his ear. “To see her cry?”

_No._ Jon can't stand this anymore, this watching, and he doesn't care what they'll think anymore, he just needs to _get out_. He shoves desperately at the door.

When he gets out though, the room is empty. Not just of them, but of all the things too, long ago packed up and sent off to Winterfell. There are no longer even any sheets on the bed. The girl who once owned this rooms is gone, and she is never coming back. Jon sighs deeply and sinks onto the mattress.

“You hated her.”

Jon looks up, shocked, to see Bran looming above him with a look of absolute certainty on his face. “You always hated her. We all pretended not to know. You thought she ought to be your mother, and if she couldn't be that, she shouldn't be anyone's. Every time she went to the birthing bed you wished she'd die, that we'd all be as alone as you were.”

Jon's jaw drops open, horrified. _No,_ he wants to say. _How can you say such things? How can you think such things?_

“We repulsed you, didn't we? Our big blue eyes and our long red hair, so much like her. You couldn't be part of our family, not if she was there. You tried and you failed, and then you started to hate us for it. That's why you left. You knew you didn't belong, and you couldn't stand to look at her, not if Father didn't have her on a leash anymore. Not if she was a Stark and you weren't.”

Tears spring to Jon's eyes. _What did I do?_ he wonders. How has he made his little brother think this of him?

“You would never have come back for Robb,” Bran hisses. “You didn't care, not anymore. All you cared about was what was waiting for you north of the Wall. When you heard, you barely blinked. You had more important things to worry about. But I bet, deep in your heart, you wish you'd been there. You wish you'd killed her yourself.”

“Bran!” Jon finally manages to speak, and reaches up to grab his brother by the wrist. Their hands look just the same now, the same size and shape, just like Father's. The flesh of Bran seems to melt away under his grip, and then form again, more solid.

“You hated him,” Bran says, and he's never been more certain of anything in his life. “We all pretended not to know. You thought he ought to be your father, and if he couldn't be that, he shouldn't be anyone's. Every time he left the castle you wished he'd die, that we'd all be as alone as you were.”

Bran expects to be laughed off, to be told he's being absurd, to get that smile. Smiling, always smiling. But he gets only silence, and angry, he continues. “We repulsed you, didn't we? Our dark hair, our honour and duty, so much like him. You couldn't be part of our family, not if you weren't like us. You tried and you failed, and then you started to hate us for it. That's why you left. You knew you didn't belong, and you couldn't stand to look at us anymore, not if he didn't have you on a leash anymore. Not if he would always be Lord Stark, and you couldn't.”

His black cloak is sewn with gold thread.

“You would never have come back for Robb. You never cared. All you cared about was what was waiting for you back home. When they told you what to do, you barely blinked. You never worried about the important things. But I bet, deep in your heart, you wish you'd been there too. You wish you'd killed _him_ yourself. You wish you'd killed us all.”

“Bran!”

“But I'm not like you,” Bran blurts out, anger suddenly turning to panic in his chest. “I loved my parents. I'm the heir to Winterfell. That was my _home_. I _belonged_. I would never betray them–”

“Bran, I never hated her!” Jon shouts, rising to his feet. Bran stops, steps back. It's like he's shrinking back into a little boy, and Jon sighs deeply. “I resented her sometimes, maybe, but it wasn't hate. I could understand. It was cruel what Father did to her, throwing his bastard in her face and telling her just to cope with it, never even deigning to give her an explanation. He never told her more than he told me.” Jon spits those words. It surprises him how angry they make him. He never thought he was angry at Father. “But she could never hate him for it; she was his wife, she had to do her duty. If she hated _him_ for it, _you_ wouldn't even be here.”

Bran looks wounded, as if he's just remembered who he's talking to.

“But I wasn't her duty, I was just her humiliation. Really, all things considered, she could have been much worse. Some women would have had me slaving away with the servants to put me in my place. Some women would have had me killed. I tried to be grateful, Bran. I never hated her like she hated me.”

Lady Stark, he thinks, did do her best not to be too bad. But she had her moments. _It should have been you._ Perhaps, just once, he did hate her. But what's one moment of weakness in a whole life?

“And she did hate me,” Jon says. “I could see it in her eyes. Ever since I was a babe, she wished I'd just die and leave her be. I never hated her; I was _afraid_ of her. That's why I left. I left because I'd rather go than be kicked out!”

There's a pause, and then something strange happens. Bran turns his head, hiding his face. He sinks down onto the mattress. And then he starts to weep.

Jon softens immediately. “Bran,” he says. Despite everything Bran just said to him, can't stand to see his little brother cry, and he sits beside him on the bed, a warm hand on his shoulder. “Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you lost your mother. I shouldn't have shouted like that; it's all very complicated, and it's not up to you–”

“I ran,” Bran sobs.

Jon blinks. “What?”

“From Winterfell,” he sniffs. “When it was taken. When it was sacked. I hid and ran like a scared little boy. I let him kill two children, because he couldn't find me.”

Jon frowns, and waits, knowing more explanation was coming. “They told me I had to,” Bran says. “They said I had a great destiny waiting for me north of the Wall. And I told myself it was important, that it was my duty, that Mother and Father would understand.” He sighs and shakes his head. “But I didn't care about duty. About honour. About family. I'm not sure I even cared about walking again. I just wanted to escape. I didn't want to have to cope with what happened. I didn't want to have to look anyone in the eye and tell them how I'd failed.”

Bran can't really blame himself for what happened at Winterfell, can he? He was just a boy.

“So I'd rather they thought I was dead,” Bran continues. “I let everyone think I was dead. I let _her_ think I was dead. She was my mother, how could I do that to her?” Jon says nothing. What can he say to that? “I was angry at her. I knew I shouldn't be, I knew she'd only left to keep me safe, but... somehow I still felt like she abandoned me. Maybe that's why I left, I don't know.”

“Bran...” Jon says.

“She tore her face open, did you know that?” Bran asks, finally meeting his eye. Jon blinks. No, he didn't know that. How would he know that? “When they murdered Robb in front of her. She ripped her skin apart with her nails and let herself cry blood, laughing like a maniac.”

It's horrible, what Bran tells him, and despite everything it's not as if he doesn't feel some grief for the poor woman. He doesn't know what he'd have done if he'd had to watch Robb being killed.

“She wasn't meant to die,” Bran murmurs, looking away again. “That wasn't the plan. They planned to take her hostage, like Sansa. Maybe she would have escaped after that, I don't know. But when she thought we were all dead, we were all lost to her, she – she went mad. It wasn't worth it anymore. So they slit her throat and threw her in the river like rotten meat.”

And then it all slides horribly into place for Jon. “Bran – that wasn't your fault–”

Bran shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself, sobbing harder. “She was my mother. I should have been there. Where was I?” he asks, and Jon can't answer. He can't understand. Instead, hesitantly he wraps his arms around Bran's shoulders, pulls him into an embrace, like he would have any other time he saw the boy cry. Bran stiffens a moment, wary – but then he sinks into it, burying his tears in Jon's chest. “I should have died with her.”

 


	9. The Burner

They stay there a long time, Bran crying and Jon holding him, not speaking. As he leans against his Jon's chest, Bran does battle with himself. It was not Jon he was angry at, it was never Jon he was angry at, but still he is wary – he is wary of everything that's ever happened and many things that haven't, and he does not always know the difference. _He should not forgive me so easily,_ he thinks as Jon runs fingers through his hair, almost motherly in his softness. But Bran does not know what it means that he does.

Outside, the rain that had started to fade comes down heavier again. Bran closes his eyes and presses his face further into Jon's chest, hiding. _No. Leave me be._ But try as he might he can't fight it; he is so soaked with sweat he's almost drowning in it, he smells like a wet dog, like nothing that ever lived in a castle at all. And he is getting Jon wet too.

The rain almost drowns out the sound of his own heartbeat, and then comes the roar of that horrible creature again, shadow falling over them both, stealing the spring heat from the room. Jon stops, and Bran can feel his body tighten with fear. “Bran,” he whispers, “what _is_ that?”

Bran swallows hard. “No.” He will not do this. He will not let _him_ do this. He pulls himself from Jon's arms, ignoring the cold, and charges out the door. He has a duty.

Around him, the castle rushes around, men grabbing swords and women locking doors. The war has come again. He does not let himself look and check whether Jon is following, he simply struts forward to the castle gates and grabs Ice from it's sheathe, the steel almost as heavy as he is, but he carries it.

“My lord,” says a serving girl as she passes him his armour, “you shouldn't–”

“I must,” he says as if it is that simple, because it is that simple. He is a knight, and this is what knights do. They slay dragons.

In the courtyard he finally sees it plain, black and red and gold, and huge, so much bigger than him. He cannot let himself be afraid. Bran raises his sword to the creature, wears his most stoic face, tries to look like Father. He tries not to believe the dragon is laughing at him. _He was always laughing._

The dragon opens his jaw and a huge torrent of water comes out, knocking Bran to his feet. “Bran!” Jon calls from the gates, looking on in shock and horror. _What's he doing, I have to stop him,_ he thinks, but there's nothing he can do, Bran has taken their sword. _He's just a boy, he can't do this,_ but there is no-one else.

Bran almost slips over in the icy water as he gets back to his feet, but he must stand, he cannot run. He grasps the sword more firmly and desperately plunges it toward the sea-dragon. He misses, and the dragon lets out more water, now not icy but scalding. Bran screams and his skin turns blue and red from the blast, but he will not run. He charges again and scratches a scale off, and the sea-dragon looks slightly annoyed, but it is _something_.

_I have to save him,_ Jon thinks, but he feels locked in place, chained almost. There is nothing he can do for his brother, and the thought wounds him. _What good am I?_ He watches as Bran attacks this monster again and again, letting it boil him in his armour, as if he could not care less if he dies. _What happened to you?_

The dragon strikes him with a claw and blood runs down his cheek, but Bran pays it no heed. The blood pours into his mouth and he swallows it, tasting iron, tasting death, but all men must taste death. The dragon strikes again and almost slits his throat, Bran can feel the blood dripping down, he may never speak again, but he is still breathing and so he must still fight.

Bran raises his sword and finally lands a blow; one of the dragon's toes flies away and the creature wails in pain. _Yes!_ Bran thinks, and the creature scalds him with more boiling water but he barely feels it, too elevated by being able to hurt this thing. _It was never Jon I was angry at, it was only him, and I can destroy him._ He strikes again and the dragon's five toes go scatter across the courtyard, spreading ripples through the water like raindrops.

The sea-dragon is faltering now, but Jon watches as Bran does not let up. He leaves deep, ugly wounds across the dragon's back and belly, making it bleed, and tears horribly at its face, striking its teeth with his sword and knocking them all out. The dragon wails, and tries to turn, tries to retreat, but Bran won't let it. He hacks blindly, like a butcher, cutting the arms and legs from the creature and making it lie helpless on the ground. Still, Bran does not stop; he thrusts his sword beneath the creature as if he's trying to cut away his manhood – do dragons even have manhoods? Finally, he plunges his sword deep into the sea-dragon's heart.

“Go to hell!” Bran screams, but he can't hear himself over the sound of the creature wailing. “ _Go to hell!_ ”

The sea-dragon finally collapses, sinking into the courtyard outside Winterfell. Bran grins at his victory, and slowly pulls Father's sword back out, the creature's heart impaled upon it. The heart is red and bloody, but small, still pulsing. It looks just like any man's heart.

“Bran,” Jon whispers behind him, “what have you done?”

Bran turns to see him, and smiles. _He came._ But before he can truly feel relieved, he's shocked but a horrifying gurgle and the feel of icy water soaking his feet.

The sea-dragon isn't dead.

He turns back around and sees it, broken, a mutilated wreck, screaming in pain and no-one is listening. The castle behind them is deathly quiet. Bran's jaw drops open in horror. “No...” he whispers and he drops the sword, it hits the ground with a hideous clang that shakes their stone walls. Blood, he's covered in blood, and he stinks of it, salt and smoke and iron. He smells of death. He trembles and then falls to his knees, like a man at prayer. “I didn't do this.”

Hesitantly, Jon steps forward. “It's alright, Bran,” he says, although he's not sure he's ever seen anything less right. “Just – come back. It will be alright.”

Bran can't move. “I _didn't do this_ ,” he insists again, but he cannot make himself believe it. He does not even know why he's so upset. Isn't this what he wanted? Justice? Vengeance? _Fire and blood._ He sobs.

“Come on. We should go get help,” Jon says as he tries not to slip in the water. “We should go get Father.” It's the only thing he can think of.

Bran sobs harder. He can't think of anything he wants more than to go get Father, but he knows its no use. _What help would he be anyway?_ The sea-dragon wails some more, dead and undying, far from home. _I did not do this,_ Bran wants to think, but he let it happen. Bran let him suffer this way, and let no-one help him, all for his sakes.

Jon lays a hand on his shoulder and Bran jumps. “Bran. Let's get you clean. Come back inside.”

Bran shakes his head. “We have to help him,” he says and then he's scrambling for the toes, trying to stick them back to the arms and legs, trying to stick those back to the body, trying to reassemble this sea creature like a child with a jigsaw. He has to fix this. He has to fix all of it, him and Mother and Jon and the Targaryens, only he knows it all, so he must fix it all, right?

But the parts turn to meat in his hands. Some things are unfixable.

“I wouldn't do this, you know that Jon?” he turns and tells him hysterically. “You know me. I'm good, I was a good boy, I was going to be a knight. I would have defended you all, Mother and Father and our sisters and...” _My brothers,_ but he can't help but remember Robb's body, and Rickon, he is not even brave enough to try and know what's happened to Rickon. _I promised to look after him._ He promised a lot of things, or maybe the promises were made for him. “You know me, don't you? Please tell me you know me.”

Jon swallows deeply. He did know Bran once, better than he knew himself – but things are so strange here and now, and ugly, frightening. He doesn't know he knows anything. “Let's just go inside. We can get Father, we can get Maester Luwin. They can help.”

Bran shakes his head. _It is too late._ But Jon is insisting, and so Bran has to go, because where else can he go? He tries to stand.

“Jon.” He tries again, but his legs remain fixed in place, frozen. _I am turning into ice,_ he thinks, hysterical. “Jon, I can't walk.”

Silence. “That's alright,” he says, and he threads his arms underneath Bran's. “I can carry you. Just come back to the castle with me.”

Bran stops, wary. _I shouldn't. He shouldn't. He shouldn't want me there._ But what choice does he have? “Alright,” he whispers and he goes limp as a corpse, letting Jon cradle him in his arms, like a man with a baby.

 


	10. The Breaker

Jon carries Bran back through the gates and the boy is heavy, even as he seems to be shrinking, but he can't let him down yet. The corridors seem colder now, although Jon guesses that's because they're at the outskirts. Bran clings to his neck and Jon groans as he keeps walking, one foot after the other, trudging on.

They find themselves outside the great hall, where petitioners used to beg entrance to see their father. There's no-one else there except a guard. Jon blinks as he recognises the man – its the same blond-haired brown-haired fellow from the brothel, his tunic totally red, but he looks at Jon differently now. He does not call him _m'lord_ anymore. He eyes him warily, like a stranger.

“Names?”

Jon blinks, surprised. “I'm Jon,” he says. “This is my brother Bran.”

 _Liar,_ Bran thinks.

“And what is your business here?”

Jon hesitates. “There's been an accident. Someone's hurt. We need help.” He's not sure how to explain what happened with Bran and the sea-dragon, not least when Bran is still so fragile. He's not sure if there are other things lurking beneath either. Is he only here because he has nowhere else to go?

The man nods and looks back through the door. “I know that man,” Jon whispers.

“His name is Fredrik,” Bran answers. “He was one of the Winterfell guards. When the Lannisters arrested Father, they killed him, and many of our soldiers.”

Jon blinks at Bran, taken aback. “Is that all?”

No, of course not. If Jon asked, Bran could tell him the man's whole life, from the first cry as he was ripped from his mother's womb to the last as he choked on his own blood. He could tell Jon about every whore this man ever fucked, the one he sired his bastard on, and every man she went on to fuck following in her mother's footsteps. He could tell Jon anything and everything, but he has no idea what Jon would care to hear, or should hear. “That's all.”

If he wanted to, Bran could know everything, from the first spark of life in an unknowable cosmos to the end of all things, all turned to ash and black. All the times the world is made of, and the times it makes. All the worlds there could ever be, and the worlds their world could be inside. Every thought, every feeling, every act, it's in him somewhere. Bran Stark, as he once was, is long gone, dead the moment he entered that cave. It turns out Theon killed him after all.

If he wanted to, he could know everything, but he doesn't want to. Everything he knows just makes him frightened and hurt. He knows he _must_ , he has a duty, the gods did not bring him to this place so he could hide in his dreams and slaughter his nightmares. But why did they bring him here? Why _him_? That's one of the few things he cannot know. He can know everything that could happen, but in the midst of that chaos, he can't know what will. He can know everything, except what any of it means.

 _And I thought being a lord was hard,_ he thinks. _What about being a god?_

A woman with strawberry blonde hair comes walking past them quickly. They never see her face. “The lady will see you now,” Fredrik tells them, and Jon frowns, nervous. _Lady?_

Bran still in his arms, they enter the great hall, and a woman with long red hair waits atop Throne of Winter. For a second Jon thinks it really is Lady Catelyn sitting in his father's chair, but she's too young, and she does look different, wrapped in northern furs. “...Sansa.”

“Jon,” she says, her face a mask of ice.

His arms are aching, and so Jon places Bran on the floor as gently as possible. Bran sits there with as much dignity as he can muster. Jon sighs. “Sansa, there's been an incident. We–”

“Need help,” she says. “I know. Is that why you've come to me?”

Jon hesitates. How do you answer a question like that? “...This is bigger than us,” he says.

She sighs deeply. “You didn't come for me,” she tells them. “I waited. And nobody ever came.”

Jon's jaw drops open. He did hear about Sansa, imprisoned by the Lannisters, and his heart ached for her but at the very least he knew she wasn't dead. He would have tried to rescue her, but... “I took a vow,” he says. “I said the words. I... I'm sorry.”

Sansa closes her eyes, as if she's trying not to cry. “And yet here you are,” she says.

“Things have changed.”

“I didn't change things?”

“Sansa–”

“And what about you?” her eyes slide over to Bran. “What vow did you make?”

She can't really blame Bran, can she? He was just a boy, and he was bound to Robb's word. What could he have done? “We had to go, Sansa,” Bran tells her. “We were needed.”

“I needed you.”

“Not as much.”

“As much as who?”

“Everyone.”

She pauses, and smiles to herself. “So, you had no choice then?” she asks.

“...No. No, we both had a choice,” Bran admits. “And in any other world, we both would have made the wrong one. But...”

“We live in this world,” she says. “And here I am. Still alive. So bad could things be?”

Neither of them says anything to that. Their sister looks half a ghost now, nothing like what she once was. In truth, maybe it wasn't their duty to rescue her: Jon took a vow, and Bran was a child. It was Robb who failed, but Robb is dead. Only the living can pay for their sins.

But she is still alive. She is the heir to Winterfell: Jon will never feel it is his, no matter what he's told, and Bran, Bran left it all to her, saddled her with a duty he couldn't face or comprehend. He gave his birthright to the crows.

“Leave them alone, will you?” comes another voice, bright and cheery. “They did they best they could.”

Jon looks up and sees a young woman in men's dress lingering at the top of the stairs, dark hair and grey eyes, leather jerkin laced up to her throat. “Arya!” he cries, delighted, and she breaks into a grin as she goes running to him. But she doesn't _look_ like Arya. She's too old, old enough to be a mother, and just before she reaches Jon and throws her arms around him Bran throws himself between them, clinging to Jon's leg. Jon looks down, confused, and sees his little brother – he's just a little boy again, grasping at Jon's clothing, tiny and _scared._ Jon doesn't understand. “What's wrong?”

Arya grows no younger, and frowns, puzzled. “Bran, I'm your blood,” she says. “Don't you trust me?”

Bran hesitates. How does he answer that?

Slowly, he lets his grip on Jon's leg loosen, but he can't bring himself to let go entirely. No-one else moves any closer together. Jon sighs and turns back to Sansa, still sitting in Father's seat. “Where are we meant to go?” he asks.

Sansa smiles sadly. “Where were you always meant to go?”

Jon frowns, looking back at Arya, who seems forlorn he'll be leaving them so soon. “The crypts,” he says. He knew he was always meant to go to the crypts, to find something there, but he never wanted to. He was afraid. Is that the point of all this, just to face what frightens him?

He bites his lip. “Will you wait for us?” he asks Sansa.

She shakes her head. “I'm sorry. I can't wait anymore.”

 


	11. The Builder

The crypts are dark, cold, black. Jon holds a flickering candle, but it can only illuminate a few faces at a time, none he recognises. In the end, it's all just stone.

He stands on the precipice, not ready to step forward, like he's waiting for an invitation. Bran clings to his arm, upright somehow. “No-one is going to come to you,” he murmurs, “whatever's there, you have to go find it.”

“I know that,” Jon snaps, and then he sighs. There's no real reason for him to feel guilty though. After all, Bran reasons, he's probably lying. “Sorry,” says Jon. “I'm just... afraid.”

“Of what?”

“I don't know.”

Bran sighs, but it's like there's a knot in his heart finally loosening. He shouldn't be happy his brother is frightened though, he knows that. Jon lifts the candle again, and a face comes into view, stern and grey, greatsword in hand. Jon swallows. “Father.”

“The last Lord of Winterfell,” Bran says. He doesn't look like Father. Father had grey eyes, but he wasn't grey all over – stone, it's all just stone. Somewhere here is the last King in the North too, most likely years older than he was, sword aloft. The red of his hair and blue of his eyes are long gone though. Stone, they're all just stone.

Jon doesn't respond, he just keeps staring into the empty slate eyes as if he'll find something there in his father's crypt, something he never found in his father's life. “They're all here, you know,” Bran tells him. “Father. Robb. Lord Rickard. Lord Edwyle. Lord William. On and on it goes. The Lords of Winterfell, the Kings in the North, the Kings of Winter.” Bran pauses, and scoffs. “The Kings of Winter. Gods, what a stupid name.”

Jon is snapped out of his reverie, and looks his brother in the eye, puzzled. “What?”

“None of them were ever kings of winter. No man can be king of a season,” Bran tells him. “If we were kings of winter, then winter would be our subject. We could order it to our whims. We could force it back north over the wall, to leave our people be, or we could send it south to fight our enemies for us. We would not let it freeze us, would not let it starve us, would not let it kill us. Winter would be our most loyal vassal,” he says. “And yet here we are. Father is dead, Robb is dead, and winter is still coming. Winter is always coming, because we cannot stop it.”

Jon sighs, and puts his candle down. He knows he'll get no answers from his father's corpse. “Bran,” he says, “do you think we're dreaming all this?”

Bran seems to think this over a moment. “That would explain a lot,” he says. “I don't think any of this is really possible.”

“Neither of us is really here,” Jon adds. “We're both long gone.” Some day, they might come back, but for now they are gone. He sighs. “So am I dreaming you, or are you dreaming me?”

“That I don't know.”

Jon frowns. “I used to think this place could answer my questions,” he admits. “When I used to dream about it. I could here something calling out to me, inviting me in. And I told myself I wanted those answers, I wanted to know where I belonged, but at the same time... I was too scared to go inside. I didn't know what I'd learn. What parts of myself would I lose if I did go?”

If Jon raised his candle right now, he could see another face flicker into view. But Bran isn't brave enough to suggest he do so. _What parts indeed._ Bran takes ahold of Jon's hand and laces their fingers together, but Jon is so big and he is so small – no matter what he becomes, he will always be the little brother.

Jon gives him a bemused look. “What are you doing?”

“Comparing hands.”

“They say that's bad luck.”

“Who does?”

“You.” Bran sighs. Jon has a point there. Slowly, he lets go. “So if we're dreaming all this – why?”

Bran frowns. “Does there have to be a reason?”

“Well, not necessarily,” Jon concedes, the light of his candle dwindling. “But I feel like there probably is.”

Bran bites his lip. _Well I don't know it,_ he wants to say, but the words don't come. His mother used to tell him he was a terrible liar. “What if we just wake up?” he suggests, and he sounds just like a child. “What if we forget all of this?”

Jon frowns and shrugs. “We could, I suppose,” and he tries not to be too wounded – but it feels like rejection. “But I'd miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Bran murmurs. He already misses Jon, and a part of him thinks it would be easier to just keep missing him, to keep him locked away in his mind pure and pristine, to never have to fear what might come next. He knows he's being selfish. He knows Father wouldn't approve. But it was Father who caused them this grief to start, and Bran never asked for it, he just wants to stay...

“So is that it then?” Jon asks. “We go back to the world and never answer our questions? Now you see me, now–”

In the black, Bran waits for the moment where they'll both wake, but of course it does not come. Jon is right, there is a reason. He made this world trying to escape the reason, but it caught up with up, it will always catch up with him. It is bigger than him.

“Jon, I have to tell you something–”

 


End file.
